


A Comfort

by CorsairLord



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 02:08:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsairLord/pseuds/CorsairLord
Summary: To die fighting the hated Xenos is glorious and honourable.To die sacrificing oneself to protect others is most holy and valorous.To do both is to mark one as a hero of the highest caliber.The Soldiers of The Imperium are frequently heroes.A tragic fact.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	A Comfort

He had volunteered to hold the sentry gun pillbox, alongside Maro and the Tech-Priest Acolyte, Barundus. He hadn't really known why.

He objectively knew it was tantamount to suicide. 

They couldn't hold against the Genestealers. They weren't a wall, they were a roadblock. 

But he still volunteered. 

Maro was the first to fall, when a krak grenade landed on top of the permacrete roof of the pillbox and collapsed it. 

Barundus was next when the Tarantula overheated and had required her ministrations. She had just finished applying the holy oil when the autogun burst had ripped through her head. 

The Tarantula had answered for her as it let loose a hail of fire upon the advancing horde. 

And what a horde it was. 

He didn't know how long the Cult had been festering in the dark parts of the Underhive, but he wagered it had been at least since before he was brought into the galaxy. 

He remembered how honoured he was when his Sergeant gave him his personal Hotshot. He pretended not to notice the way his eyes had watered or the way his hand lingered on his shoulder when he told him that he did the Emperor's work. 

He understood now, as the Tarantula overheated once more, as he put the last laspack in place and counted his shots. 

What he did was righteous and holy. 

His sacrifice meant others would live, would see another day under the Emperor. 

As the laspack gifted its last charge to the weapon, he made peace with his fate. 

The first shot came from a stolen lasrifle he was sure. 

The second a scattergun or autogun of some kind. 

After the second he lost track as he fell against the rubble and felt the blood come with his coughing fit, the metallic tang the last thing he would ever taste. 

He drew his knife with as much strength as he could muster. 

Emperor willing, he would take one of the beasts with him. 

He could hear them approach, snarling and screaming in sibilant voices, their very existence anathema to the Emperor's will. 

He steadied himself as he imagined what would come after it all. 

When he heard the hum of the chainweapons and the report of bolters, he could not believe it. 

When he felt the rumble of the earth and finally saw them he could not believe it. 

The Emperor's Holy Angels, Instruments of His Will, the Adeptus Astartes. 

They were awesome and terrible in a way, as they came over the fortifications the Guard had managed to form, as they chanted the holy battle songs of their chapter in High Gothic. 

As one came over the ruined ceiling of the pillbox, he held his breath as the Angel swept his bolter over his surroundings before stopping at him. 

The Angel lowered his bolter then, and approached him. The Angel was larger than he'd ever dreamed. His hands were as big as his chest, and the ground responded with every step. 

He kneeled down next to him then, and placed a massive hand on his shoulder, with a gentleness almost unnatural. 

"Hail Guardsman. You held this position."

It was not a question, it was a statement of fact, the Angel's voice coming through his vox-speaker. His tone was that of respect, and gratitude. 

"Y-yes, my lord...I had to."

The Angel paused then, before he squeezed his shoulder.

"You did well, Guardsman."

"Th-thank you my-my lord…what happens…after?" 

His vision was beginning to dim then, as his grip on his knife slackened. He did not have long. 

"I cannot say, Guardsman. I can say this, however: You will be remembered. I swear it, upon most Holy Terra herself."

His heart stirred then, briefly, as he felt only the warmth of the Angel's hand upon his shoulder and not the encroaching cold in his bones. He looked up at the sky then, and saw the stars, past all the skyscrapers and ruined ceiling. 

"Emperor bless you…my lord…"

He let the cold embrace him then, as he died staring at the stars of the Imperium, content that he had died for something worthy and great, in the presence of a hero of all mankind.

He would never see the Astartes bow his head in mourning, nor see him pull his tags from around his neck, and repeat his name to himself over and over until it was burned into his memory.

When the Astartes bid him farewell, he did not see him whisper his name with every abomination felled. 

And when the Astartes left the world, newly cleansed, he did not see him light a candle in remembrance of him aboard the Battle Barge. 

He was one of millions who would die that day, across the vast expanse of space. 

But he was remembered, in the ending of it all. 

He was remembered.


End file.
